


Adjustment

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [25]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comfort/Angst, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5721115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their secret is out, and Athos isn't sure he likes that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



"Flea knows." 

They are the first words Porthos says upon turning the corner towards the living room, and Athos looks up from his book, outwardly undisturbed even when his brain is freezing in sudden shock. "How?" 

Porthos looks a little guilty. "Charon saw us this mornin'." 

No further explanation is needed, for Athos has known Flea and Charon just as long as he's known Porthos … maybe a few hours less. Why Porthos looks guilty about them being discovered, Athos has no idea. He was the one who pulled Porthos in, he distinctly remembers that. What he doesn't remember is seeing Charon around, blast it all to hell. He shouldn't have been so careless. Well. It could have been worse. It could have been Flea. 

As a boy Charon followed Flea into any battle – as long as he deemed it a battle worth fighting for. While Flea at first rejected Athos' inclusion into their circle, Charon welcomed him right away. His love was always divided equally between his two friends, and he didn't see how having Athos with them made any difference. So when Flea and Athos (exhausted from their playroom warfare) looked for Charon and Porthos, they often found them napping together, entirely oblivious of, and even more indifferent to their jealous squabbles. 

Charon was a quiet boy, not as mischievous as Porthos, but not lacking in character in the least. Some people think he's something of a slave in his devotion to Flea, but these people do not know how adamant he can be once he's made a decision. Still, he would never betray her – and not telling her about Athos and Porthos kissing would be utterly unthinkable. 

"Well," Athos manages to say after a moment of silent but intense panic. "It was only a matter of time." 

"So it was," Porthos agrees, advancing on the couch, a slight frown on his face. "You still asked me not to tell them." 

Athos is indeed guilty of that request, so all he can do is muster a grimace and shrug. "It was worth a try." 

Porthos sits down next to him, unusually silent for a long moment. "They're fine with it, you know that," he says eventually. 

"They wanted it to happen for a long, long time," Athos replies. "Especially Flea." 

Porthos shrugs. "Yeah, well … I expect she's happy now." 

Athos merely nods. As happy as he himself is with the turn of events, he does not want to hear Flea say I told you so. He just doesn't. He had to fight tooth and nail to be allowed _not_ to kiss Porthos – or anyone, for that matter – and now that he's changed his mind he fears people will … draw the wrong conclusions. He is weary of explaining himself. For once he would like simply to _be_. 

Porthos puts his arm around him as though he's read his mind, and Athos leans into him with a sigh. That's when Aramis comes home. They hear him come through the front door, make noises of welcome when he announces himself, and wait patiently for him to get rid of his coat and shoes. 

He comes around the corner soon enough, and the smile on his face wavers a bit when he sees them – he looks from one to the other in obvious concern. "What happened?" 

"Flea knows," Porthos repeats in accents of doom, and Aramis grimaces. 

"Oh dear. Was she very loud?" 

"Her performance is yet outstandin'," Porthos clarifies. "It's just that Charon happened to see Athos and me this mornin', sayin' goodbye." 

"Ah, but maybe he won't tell -" Aramis checks himself and shakes his head. "No." 

"No chance," Porthos agrees. 

Aramis looks Athos over. "Are you alright?" 

Athos looks up at him, and since he cannot lie – not to Aramis and Porthos - he shrugs. "I have been better." 

Porthos' arm promptly pulls him in a little closer, holds him a little tighter. "I won't have anyone nag at you," he promises, his voice low but fierce. Athos believes him. Just as he would never lie to Porthos, Porthos would never lie to him. 

Aramis sits down on Athos' other side and brushes a kiss to his temple before putting both arms around Athos' middle and burrowing into him with a sigh. "Maybe she won't make a fuss." 

Athos allows himself to let out a disbelieving snort, and Porthos chuckles. "You don't know her the way we do, kitten." 

"True," Aramis admits, his breath tickling Athos' ear. 

Flea would get an aneurysm if she could see them like this, Athos thinks. A smile curls the corners of his mouth. "It is probably for the best." He can _feel_ Porthos lighten up. As much as he'd promised not to tell anyone, he didn't like to keep this a secret. Because, to Athos' ever mounting surprise, Porthos is giddy with happiness about them all kissing; and while Athos has always known Porthos to be an inexhaustible fountain of love and affection, he never suspected him of, well, a desire to kiss him. Apparently Porthos has been very, very good at hiding it. 

He kisses Athos now, on the mouth, soft and utterly undemanding. It still makes Athos go wibbly-wobbly (a turn of phrase he has taken from his nieces) to be kissed by him, and he does not think he'll get used to it any time soon. While being kissed by Aramis is always nice – very, _very_ nice – being kissed by Porthos is _different_. Maybe it's their history – all those years they've shared in such close proximity – or maybe it's the plain fact that Porthos is a bear of a man who could overpower pretty much anyone into getting precisely what he wanted, and is consequently so very gentle that it makes Athos go all … wibbly-wobbly. 

Porthos also has a very nice mouth – Athos has noticed. Good lips. Athos clears his throat. Porthos' hand is on his belly again, stroking back and forth, and either Porthos knows precisely what that does to Athos and is patiently waiting for him to succumb, or, which is equally as possible, he just wants Athos to feel good. Athos allows his lids to droop. His breathing slows and his body goes warm with something that isn't quite comfort and friendship, but wouldn't be possible without it. He knows that he loves these men; he's known that for a while now. But what he is only beginning to realize, is that the nature of that emotion doesn't matter – not really. 

For years he was so sure that his affection for Porthos could never be anything but platonic, and now he's learning that it, in fact, _can_. That it _is_. This in itself is confusing enough, and loving Aramis as well doesn't make matters any easier. Because Athos doesn't feel the same for them – how could he. They are two completely different people. Still Athos would never say that he loves Aramis _less_. Just … different. 

Athos is still not sure if he's ready for anything more than the innocuous kind of kiss they share, but since neither Aramis nor Porthos demand anything more of him, that doesn't really matter. Whatever other people may think of their relationship, Athos knows he's safe with them. Yes, he's aware that Aramis emerges from situations such as this one flushed and in desperate need of a rather more physical outlet, but then Porthos is always more than ready to indulge him. 

Athos doesn't have to do anything. Apart from maybe letting them spoil him with affection – and that he can do. It gets easier every day.


	2. Chapter 2

They left the door open. It's merely the tiniest sliver, but it suffices to function as a leak for noises to come through – distinct noises. Athos, for reasons he fails to grasp, dark as it is in the middle of the night, stops in his tracks. 

"Porthos," comes Aramis' voice through the crack in the door, " _Porthos_." 

There's a certain desperate quality to Aramis' voice, and Athos flushes all over. He'd gone to bed alone, for reasons neither Porthos nor Aramis demanded any explanation of, because even if they're all kissing now, Athos still likes to sleep alone sometimes. _Needs_ to sleep alone sometimes. He might've known that they would make use of his absence. Porthos' bed is sturdy and was very expensive, so it doesn't precisely _creak_. What it does is _thump_ , which is a lot worse under the circumstances. 

Athos takes a stuttering breath. 

As does Aramis, on the other side of the door. 

Athos hears him moan, helpless and _blissful_ , and the hairs stand up on his arms. He got up for a glass of water, which he has not done since the night he found Porthos baking in the kitchen and promptly got roped into a midnight muffin session, and this should really be a lesson to him. From now on he is going to put a bottle on his damn nightstand. A bottle of _wine_. 

"Porthos," Aramis says again, giving Athos' sanity another gentle shove. " _Please_." 

Athos closes his eyes. He should go back to his room. He really should. 

"Shhht, kitten," Porthos says then. "You're gonna wake Athos." 

Athos goes down. His back hits the wall and he slides to the ground, like an iceberg separating from a glacier – slowly, but with heart-stopping finality. It's not the first time Athos has heard Porthos' voice when he was aroused – of course not – but it's the first time he's hearing him say _his name_. 

On the other side of the door Aramis makes breathless little noises of need. Apparently he likes it too when Porthos says Athos' name while they're having sex. 

Athos licks his lips. 

"You don't wanna wake Athos, do you?" he hears Porthos say. "So you need to be extra quiet." 

Aramis whimpers assent, and Porthos praises him, his voice filthy with promise. 

Athos can still feel the ghost of Porthos' touch low on his belly, remembers its _weight_ and he spreads his legs without meaning to. He is not precisely surprised that this arouses him, nor is he ashamed; but the nature of the situation has something secretive about it and leaves him with a smidgen of guilt on his conscience. But then again they are the ones talking about him while having sex. It probably balances out, somehow. 

"I think Athos would like to see you like this," Porthos promptly whispers. "Would speak to the artist in him." 

Aramis moans, and Athos very nearly does the same. Porthos is a demon in the bedroom – in the sense that demons are fallen angels and Porthos is very sweet and very caring but at the same time horribly naughty. Athos feels tempted to touch himself. Even though Aramis tries to be as quiet as possible, there's an endless stream of noises coming through the door. The rustling of the sheets, Aramis' laboured breathing, the soothing noises Porthos makes from time to time – it's a steady drip of stimulation, eroding Athos' self-control. 

It happens very rarely that he gets outwardly aroused without actual physical touch, but his current erection doesn't seem to care. His eyes, by now adjusted to the lightless grey in the corridor, can make it out quite clearly underneath the cover of his pyjama pants. It's obscene in its insistence, and Athos takes an unsteady breath. 

"That's good," he hears Porthos' voice through the door. "Just open up a little wider." 

Aramis' moans become muffled then, are drowned out by Porthos' voice, telling him how pretty he looks, how good he's doing, what a perfect little _darlin'_ he is, and Athos reaches inside his pyjama pants and takes himself in hand. The other hand he lifts to his mouth to stifle the sounds that want to escape him – which is more than necessary. He's never been loud when taking care of himself, but then he's never listened to Porthos fucking Aramis' mouth at the same time before. 

His groans and whimpers come out in synch with Aramis' and when a sudden silence sets in, Athos can barely catch his breath. His hand stills around his leaking cock, and he waits, straining to hear what's going on. 

"Yes, I know, kitten," Porthos whispers then, sounding soothing. "But you want me inside, don't you?" 

Athos' vision whites out for a moment as ice-hot lust flashes through him, and his nipples harden to the point of pain, hearing Aramis say "Yes," in a voice wrecked with arousal, beside himself with need. 

"There you go," Porthos replies, and then the sheets are rustling again, accompanied by Aramis whimpering. 

Athos is biting down on his hand, trying to control himself. One loud, helpless moan sends another bolt of lust through him, and then there's that thumping noise again – only rather more insistent this time. The ground underneath the bed must be slightly uneven, Athos thinks vaguely, starting to move his hand again. They might have to put a bit of felt under one of the legs to keep it steady. It's the last clear thought he's able to grasp. 

Aramis, apparently too aroused to contain himself any longer, is not holding back anymore; his voice carries through the door and to Athos, who in turn finds it rather difficult to hold on to his sanity. Aramis is irresistible in this condition, alluring and enchanting and _endearing_ , and Athos doesn't blame Porthos for the apparent fervour with which he's fucking him. They reach their climax together, all three of them, and Athos has never felt this boneless in his _life_. He can't get up, even if he wanted to. His skin is tingling, warm and sensitive, and he leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes. 

He almost understands why some people cannot live without this. He can't feel his knees, while his heart seems to be everywhere at once. It is a new experience, and takes Athos quite a while to get accustomed to. 

Longer than it takes Porthos to regain the power to walk, apparently. The creak in the door widens suddenly, and there he is, gloriously naked, looking down at Athos with a hint of surprise on his face. 

Whatever he might be feeling, finding him here, it certainly doesn't rival the emotions fighting for dominance in Athos' breast.


	3. Chapter 3

A flicker of _something_ glides over Porthos' features, and then he pulls the door shut behind him, crouches down in front of Athos, studies his face. "You heard us, eh?" 

His voice is too low to be heard outside a thirty centimetre radius, and all Athos can do is nod. He's aware of how this must look – of how _he_ must look, his clothing rumpled, his hand covered in his release, sitting right in front of their door. He's still so warm inside – so warm all over, high with satisfaction. He doesn't think it has ever felt like this before. Close, maybe, but never quite like this. He looks back at Porthos out of wide, helpless eyes, having not even the slightest idea how to explain himself. He can taste his heartbeat high up in his throat … can feel the heat coming from Porthos' body. 

He wants to be closer to that heat. He thinks Porthos can tell. Porthos, who does not exhibit an ounce of shame, who doesn't ask Athos to explain himself either. Instead, Porthos smiles at him, warm and gloriously smug. 

Athos closes his eyes. 

When he reopens them, Porthos is leaning in. 

He kisses Athos, brushes their lips together for a long moment, lets them breathe each other's air. It is such an intimate gesture, maybe more so than any other kiss they've shared, and Athos makes a little, helpless noise, feels his knees going even weaker than before. He lets out a long breath when Porthos pulls back, doesn't open his eyes right away. 

"I'll be right back" Porthos whispers, and then he gets up and walks away to the bathroom, leaving Athos tingling with something that isn't even close to shame, but just as helpless. He still cannot stand up, and he certainly can't follow Porthos into the bathroom to take care of the mess cooling on his right hand. 

Athos takes a deep breath, tries to relax into the situation. Not that he could. Not like this. Not alone … strangely enough. 

It doesn't take Porthos long to return, and when he does he brings a washcloth with him, warm and soft – crouches back down and holds out his hand. "Come 'ere." 

Athos puts his hand into Porthos' without a second of hesitation, and Porthos wipes him clean, gentle but thorough. It feels nice. Which is absurd, but the truth. 

They do not talk, nor does Athos try to stop Porthos when he unbuttons his pyjama top. Porthos' hands are warm on his skin, and Athos' breath hitches as Porthos strokes the fabric to the side and off his chest. Porthos regards him in silence, then he pushes Athos' pants lower on his hips. Athos bites his lip. Porthos finds and wipes off the merest smidgen of come that hasn't quite dried on Athos' skin yet, and then he leans in once more, kisses Athos again as he pulls his pants back up. "Wait here." 

As if Athos had any other option. At this point he'll call himself lucky if he can walk again in the morning. All this gentle care is turning his bones to cotton candy. 

He watches Porthos vanish towards the bathroom once more, taking the washcloth with him, and licks his lips. 

This time Porthos is even quicker to reappear than before, bringing a nice new washcloth with him, just as fluffy and soft as the first. He puts it over his shoulder as he crouches down in front of Athos, and pulls him upright. "A bit weak in the knees, eh?" 

"You should have heard yourself," Athos manages to get out in something approaching a drawl, and then he's in Porthos' arms, is being lifted and carried the way he was when he was sick. 

He can't help but feel safe. Still. Athos sighs. "I am sorry." 

Despite it being the truth he clings to Porthos and presses his face against his neck, not quite indifferent to the fact that Porthos is naked. 

"For what?" Porthos asks, suddenly standing still. 

Athos clings to him a little harder. "You know. Please don't tell Aramis." 

Porthos kisses his earlobe. "I won't." 

He resumes walking, and when Athos realizes that Porthos is carrying him into the room where Aramis is waiting for him, it's already too late. 

"Look who I found," Porthos says brightly, causing Aramis to stir on the bed. 

Having his back towards him Athos cannot see Aramis' reaction, but if Athos expected him to flush and flutter at being surprised like this, he's in for a surprise of his very own. 

" _Athos_ ," Aramis says, sounding drunk with unexpected bliss, and when Porthos puts Athos down on the bed right next to him, Aramis doesn't even try to cover himself. The bedside lamp illuminates quite clearly the state he is in – tousled, ravaged and utterly satisfied. 

Porthos loses no time in wiping Aramis clean with the washcloth he brought. He's just as gentle with Aramis as he'd been with Athos, and Aramis turns quite soft under his hands – sighs and spreads his legs for him as though Athos wasn't watching in an appreciative daze. Under different circumstances Athos might flush and avert his gaze, but the circumstances being what they are he finds it difficult to keep his hands to himself. Aramis looks so very happy. 

Once Porthos is done and has pulled away from the bed Aramis hesitates for a heartbeat or two, and then he turns around and cuddles up to Athos – still naked. Athos closes his eyes and finds that he likes it. He releases the breath he'd been holding, and raises his hand with great precision to pet Aramis' head. Aramis makes a noise of sweet satisfaction, and Athos realizes that nothing in his life has prepared him for this. The last time he encountered Aramis in a similar state was _after_ Porthos had made him shower, _after_ Aramis had dressed himself, and ventured out in the open. 

So shortly after his climax Aramis is not only a kitten intent on snuggles, he is … he is … and Athos hates to even think it … _so cute_. 

Athos can do this though – he enjoys it even. It feels good to be held after a climax, and Aramis is so warm and soft, is so openly affectionate that Athos finally finds himself relaxing. Thoroughly. To the point of _pudding_. Possibly vanilla. 

When Porthos leaves the room Athos assumes it's to get rid of the washcloth, and it is indeed gone when Porthos returns, but he doesn't do so empty handed. "Got us all some water," he says quietly, helping Athos into an almost upright position – leaning against Porthos' chest – so he can drink from the glass Porthos has brought. 

Athos, feeling parched, spills a few drops Porthos promptly kisses away. Aramis looks on with a serene smile on his lips, patiently awaiting his turn. Between them Athos turns to something even softer than pudding, but he's run out of ridiculous similes, and doesn't press the issue. 

Meanwhile Porthos appears to have put on some pants while Athos was distracted by thoughts of dairy products, leaving Aramis the only one still naked. He doesn't seem to mind. Strangely enough, neither does Athos. At least not a lot. In his current condition Aramis is far from exhibiting even slightly predatory sexual behaviour. He's somewhat sluggish, extremely cuddly, and looks both vulnerable and endearing with … how does Porthos always call it when he talks to the kids … his love nozzle flapping in the breeze. 

Athos smiles to himself and brushes a kiss to Aramis' temple. "Did you have fun with Porthos?" 

Aramis, making a pleased sound when becoming aware of the gap in Athos' unbuttoned pyjamas, noses his naked chest like a puppy searching for a treat. 

"Yes," he murmurs, audibly distracted. "He tied me up real nice." 

"I took a picture," Porthos informs Athos with a naughty gleam in his eye. "In case you wanna see it."


	4. Chapter 4

It is rather late in the day when Athos wakes up. He's sandwiched between Porthos and Aramis, as happens so often when he shares a bed with them, and for a long moment he drifts in a cloud of pale pink bliss. Aramis, still fast asleep, has pressed his face into Athos' neck, while his right hand is resting on Athos' naked chest. Athos doesn't find anything wrong with that. He lifts his chin a little higher to give Aramis better access, and cannot help but smile when Aramis makes a pleased noise in his sleep. 

Porthos is covering Athos' back, and _his_ right hand is resting low on Athos' belly, thumb slowly brushing back and forth, as if they had all the time in the world. Athos sighs. Then he comes to his senses. There are a few realizations to be had, so Athos has them all at once, naturally. He's aroused. Aramis is naked. Porthos is awake. Athos holds his breath. 

He's never had to deal with something like this before. His luckless partners rarely stayed the night, and when they did, he was never in any mood even remotely associated with arousal on the following morning. This is horrible. Behind Athos, Porthos shifts. Athos clears his throat. Alright, not quite _horrible_. A little embarrassing. 

"Good mornin'," Porthos mumbles into his hair. 

"I need to get up," Athos says, giving his best to sound unaffected. He has no idea if he's successful or not. His erection is horribly distracting. 

Porthos does him the courtesy of taking him at his word. "I shall remove the kitten." He sits up and gets out of the left side of the bed, just to dive back in on the right. 

Aramis makes a few noises of complaint when Porthos pulls him away from Athos, and then suddenly wakes up, his eyes hazy with the remnants of sleep. Athos blinks at him, and then slithers backwards like a snake on a mission. He manages to scramble out of bed without getting stuck on anything, and then resolutely walks out of the room. 

If Porthos takes note of the rather obvious bulge in Athos' pyjama pants, he doesn't comment on it, so Athos can close the door behind himself with a little bit of his dignity still intact. Possibly even all of it. He cannot be sure anymore. 

The bathroom takes on the mantle of sanctuary for the next fifteen minutes, during which Athos takes a very quick, very cold shower, brushes his teeth, stares at himself in the mirror in amazement, and promises himself that the next time he hears Aramis and Porthos have sex through a crack in the door he will simply walk away and pretend it never happened. Through the wall he can deal with. Through a crack in the door is rather too intimate. He has the memories to prove it. 

Athos takes a deep breath, and gets out of the bathroom – just when Aramis gets out of Porthos' bedroom. They stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed and indecisive, and in the end Aramis is the one who finally pulls the door shut behind him and advances on Athos like a pacifist hunter of prey both shy and far too ready to bolt. 

Despite being both flustered and uncomfortably cold from his shower, Athos notices that Aramis is dressed. There is no other word for it. He's wearing pants _and_ a t-shirt. Which is wrong. Athos cannot tell why. But it _is_. 

"Porthos shouldn't have done that," Aramis says once he's closed the distance between them. He sounds a little peeved on top of a solid base of guilt, and all Athos can do is blink. 

"Should not have done what?" 

Aramis huffs. In the time since they're known each other, Aramis has never been this obviously annoyed, and Athos finds that he positively delights in it. He has no idea why. But he _does_. 

"Carry you into the room like that!" Aramis grumbles. "He _knows_ how I get right after, and he shouldn't have exposed you to it, no matter how cute he thinks it is!" 

The fog clears, and Athos finally sees the light. "You think I left the bed because of something you did?" 

Aramis blushes suddenly. "I was naked." He sounds dejected. 

Athos looks at him for a long moment – looks at Aramis, who has put on even a _pair of socks_ in the hopes of making up for his imaginary crime, who is always, always trying so very hard not to make Athos uncomfortable, who - 

And then Aramis' back is to the wall, and Athos is standing in front of him, so very, very close, and now they're both blushing. 

"What are you doing?" Aramis asks. 

"Kissing you," Athos replies, and then he does, and Aramis' arms come up around his neck. It's almost like it was last night with Porthos. Almost. Aramis' mouth is warm, and his lips are soft, and they're breathing each other's air. But Athos is standing up, not sitting down with a bad case of pudding knees, and thus he's much closer to Aramis now than he was to Porthos last night. Aramis' body is warm – just as warm as his mouth – and it dispels the cold the shower had left Athos with, worms its way into every cell of his being. It doesn't bring the arousal back, but it does make Athos want to come back to bed … makes him curious how being this close to Porthos might feel. 

That is of course when Porthos steps out into the hallway in search of them, spots them kissing, and growls. "Are you _kiddin'_ me?" 

They part with a gasp. 

"I didn't mean to!" Aramis stammers, flushing even brighter than before. "I really meant to tell him I'm sorry, and _I did_ , and then he kissed me!" 

"Of course he did!" Porthos groans, gesturing to Aramis' get-up. "You're wearing _socks_! I _told_ you he didn't flee the bed cause of your love nozzle -" 

"Will you stop calling it that!" Aramis shrieks. 

"Your _dick_ ," Porthos adjusts, causing Athos to close his eyes in sudden, unexpected delight. 

"Come back to bed," he hears Porthos say, sounding both impatient and impossibly fond. "Both of you." He snorts. "And take off those socks, Aramis, you look ridiculous." 

"You said I was welcome to your sock drawer!" Aramis replies, in a voice of deepest injury. 

"Not the rainbow ones," Porthos says. "They're too much." 

"They're _your_ socks!" Aramis argues, sounding scandalized. 

Porthos steps closer. "They look different on me." 

"They really do," Athos agrees, his lips twitching. 

He opens his eyes to perceive Porthos standing right next to him, smiling in a rather promising way. "Coming back to bed?" 

"Just a moment," Athos temporizes, and then he pulls Aramis close again, kisses him right in front of Porthos. 

Porthos must like it, for his hand is suddenly low on Athos' back, resting just above the swell of his ass. It's almost as bad as when he puts it low on Athos' belly. But only almost.


	5. Chapter 5

They have just managed to finally get dressed after some very pleasurable hours spent cuddling and kissing when the doorbell rings. 

"Let me," Athos says, pushing Aramis back down on the couch and into Porthos' lap. "It's probably Miss Durham, looking for her cat again." 

It's not. It's Flea. 

Athos feels himself going pale. His knees are doing that pudding thing again, only it's not vanilla this time. It's _black pudding_. 

Flea frowns at his reaction. "Why do I get the feeling that I figure as the witch in this fairy tale? Are you going to invite me in, or what?" 

Athos clears his throat and locks his knees to step out of the way. "Sorry. Please come in." 

Flea huffs and stomps past him through the door, wrestles out of her coat and throws it onto the wardrobe. She takes off her boots, gracefully accepts the felt guest slippers Athos offers her, and skates over the hardwood floor into the living area. At the sight of her, Aramis hastily climbs out of Porthos' lap. Flea sighs, deeply and heartfelt. 

"Please stop that. I'm not here to berate anyone." She turns her head to look at Athos, who has come up to stand beside her, feeling so far out of his depth he might actually be hovering. "Join them, please." 

Athos, for want of other options, does as he is told. Once he's sitting on the couch next to Aramis, Flea looks them over like a benevolent queen surveying her estates, and smiles in an oddly forced manner. "Anyone care to guess why I'm here?" 

Athos resolutely stares out of the window. Porthos, probably the only one among them not inwardly shitting himself, chuckles, but doesn't actually say anything. 

"The kissing?" Aramis ventures, brave beyond compare as far as Athos is concerned. 

Flea rewards him with an approving little nod. "Well done, Aramis. Does anyone want to put this into rather more words?" 

She waits for a beat, her hands on her hips, elbows sticking out to the side, and Athos suddenly realizes why it is that while Charon and Porthos are equally beloved by their charges in the schoolroom, Flea is the one who actually gets shit done. 

"You didn't tell me," Flea explains when the three of them remain silent. She sounds soft, and a little disappointed, and leagues away from the betrayed fury Athos expected. He turns his head and looks at her, and their eyes lock. 

"You didn't tell anyone," she says. "You thought you had to keep it secret." 

Her shoulders sag and her elbows fold in and she takes a deep breath, holding Athos' gaze. "I'm really sorry." 

Athos blinks. 

"For being pushy," Flea explains. "I get how that … well, pushed you into a corner here." She clears her throat. "I promise I'll try to be a little less … pushy … in the future." 

"Don't exhaust your vocabulary," Porthos teases her, and she sticks out her tongue at him, still oddly subdued. 

Athos realizes with a pang of guilt that they've made her _sad_. That she never intended to give them the impression that they couldn't tell her _anything_. Anything at all. The sudden insight propels him off the couch and towards her, and he pulls her into a hug that's just as surprising to him as it is to her. They do not usually do this. With each other. Still Athos closes his eyes, holding her tight. Next time, Athos promises himself, he's going to listen to Aramis. For while Aramis didn't grow up with Flea that doesn't necessarily mean that he doesn't know her as well as Athos and Porthos do. It just means he didn't know her when she was five, and thus doesn't have the same amount of memory baggage. 

Flea has changed over the years, has become a lot wiser and far less likely to bite your extremities, and maybe Athos should have known that she wouldn't make him feel awful about this. 

"Ok, what's going on," she now mumbles against his chest, a little stiff in his arms. "I'm fairly alarmed here." 

He holds her a little tighter. "Believe me, so am I." 

She snorts and relaxes, gently slaps his butt. "Posh idiot." 

"Untamed shrew," he counters fondly. 

"You're adorable," Porthos informs them, inspiring them to part before he gets the bright idea to take a picture – but of course it's already too late. 

He puts down his phone to smirk at them, while Aramis is looking from one to the other, pleased but confused. "So it's all good now?" 

"I certainly hope so," Flea grimaces. 

"Eh," Porthos huffs, "you hugged. I can count on two hands how often that's happened. Everythin's great." 

That gets him a smile and a demand for tea, so he heaves himself off the couch and obediently approaches the kitchen area. Flea sighs and joins Aramis on the couch, who eyes her like a shy kitten. She pats his knee. "I won't make a fuss, I promise." 

Aramis promptly relaxes. "I thought you might not." 

That earns him a gratified little grin, and Flea grabs herself a cushion, folds her legs underneath herself and lets out a long breath. "I guess you were alone in that, eh?" 

Athos gently clears his throat and sits down in the armchair opposite the couch. "I misjudged you. I am sorry." 

"Me too," Porthos says from the kitchen area. 

Flea shakes her head, a self-depreciating grin hovering around her mouth. "Charon tells me I brought this on myself." She peeks up at Athos, a little imp of mischief in her eyes. "He also says you're very demanding." 

Athos lifts his nose a fraction. "What if I am?" 

She snorts and hugs her pillow. "I like that." 

The thing is that she really _does_ , Athos thinks. She's in love with the very idea of him kissing Porthos – always has been. Apparently she doesn't consider Aramis' position in the relationship odd or questionable either. 

"By the way," Flea says at that point, "we've told the kids that you're all too much in love with each other to pay even the slightest regard to the one-on-one guideline, so of course the playroom is now boiling over with the potential of that revelation." She folds her hands on top of her cushion and shakes out her hair. "We had to tell them something, you know. I have no idea how, but they knew even before I did. You really weren't very clever, kissing right there in the hall where everyone could see you! This morning I was privy to a foursome negotiation. It was epic. Teddy almost traded in one of his dresses." 

"He did not!" Aramis blurts out, looking scandalized by the very idea – making Flea laugh. 

"Almost!" she giggles. "In the end he decided it wasn't worth it." 

"That is of course his decision to make," Athos hears himself say. "He may still change his mind." 

"Yes," Flea agrees, smiling at him. "He's always allowed to do that."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, darling <3


End file.
